I'd like to go back to Troy, NY in the late 30's to watch my Dad play. By all accounts, he was a talented young shortstop before the war came along. After the war, he quit playing to work his ass off raising us four kids.
I never saw Dad play while growing up, but he talked about the game frequently enough to put the spark in me. He hated 8-ball with a passion, saying only straight pool was worth playing. Once when I was about 17 or so, we were both at a bar celebrating our new union contract. A couple of our coworkers talked him into playing a few racks of 8-ball. He looked pretty smooth to me, but before he could run out, a fight broke out... with me in the middle of it.
The bartender jumped over the bar, grabbed me by the shirt collar, and was just about to punch my lights out when Dad raised his stick over his head and yelled at him to back off. He let me go, but we all got kicked out, and those few balls were all I ever seen him run.